Fergal & The Boys


Well there you have it. From an educational venture through Guatemala with Juju, to essentially co-creating a fraternity that partied our way back to the Caribbean coast, and what do you know, I’m back on the porch at Amaya’s Inn. Punta Gorda Town. I got frisked tonight. I was taking a short cut through a dark alley, and when I saw the streetlight I sneezed, opened my eyes to see two police officers, wanting to know where the heck I was coming from. I wasn’t carrying anything. High Five.

The Boys

The group found each other on the Pacific shores of El Tunco El Salvador. There was 4 of Us

The Two Irishmen, Patrick and Fergal were the magnets that drew us other stragglers in. They were on a 1 year Central/South American jaunt, bound to reach the southern most point by January.

The American, Andy, diving, surfing, chilling out, seasonal work back home, just like me.

Well from the first night we all met, a bond was formed. The Irish invited us on their quest to find the D&D Brewery somewhere in East Central Honduras. Patrick was the Captain, and with a name like that, and his flowing red hair, he was hilariously stereotypical. Fergal, his best mate was the Jokes. Joel and Fergal made a good pair. Plus we were short. Andy was about as Steven Hyde (that 70’s show) as you can get before he gets pissed off that you keep diminishing him to a TV character. Which is totally how Hyde would react to such a thing.


Andy and I enjoyed practicing our spanish on the locals together. We recalled back, to the marvellous language-learning App that is DuoLingo. That teaches you something, but nothing that comes in handy when you’re on the streets trying to find what you need. If you’ve made it through a couple levels, you may remember that el gato beben le leche. The cat drinks the milk. Pretty fuckin’ handy out here. We added it to our vocabulary, just itching to see a cat drinking milk and being able to comment on that to somebody near by. In the end, I usually threw it in to my introduction. “Muy pokito español, pero, el gato beben le leche”. I got some looks.


The brewery was nice. We all stayed a few days longer than we’d planned to. Mostly because none of us were sure where we were going next, we weren’t quite ready to part ways, and we kept meeting rad ass people. This Brewery, in a quiet Honduran village beside the lake, was a standalone tourist destination, and therefore attracted 2 different kinds of people. Total chach’s, and the backpackers. The backpacker’s were at a brewery and ready to party. and the Chach’s were at a brewery and brought their $180 silk shirt, but were also ready to party. And their own Grey Goose from America… to a Brewery… The backpackers would hitchhike the 3 miles into town for a cheaper bottle of Rum.

There was Ki Ki. A sweet little Amsterdam girl over seas for the first time. When I’d had enough of drinking at the brewery she was usually up for an excursion, Kayaking or whatever. Plus she understood my humour. A fellow Canadian named Matt from Kelowna. (Go Blazers) who was doing something similar to me, but better, in the whole travel blog thing. Find him Here.

Kiki and the Captain

There was Sharon. A little blonde girl travelling solo. (That’s so Dangerous! Everyone says). Then she opens her mouth, and her Italian-rooted tone puts them right in their place when she states; I’m From Detroit. She’s a camera operator for reality television in the states. Freelancing, so she goes travelling in her spare time. And the girls got stories. I think I’ve got her convinced to send me some for the Blog. Travelling with an Australian on the run from the cartel. The kind of stuff I only dream of.

The following picture was taken during the peak of the fraternity, I do say.

And there was Dylan. Northern Ireland. Came in with his partner of 2 and a half months, and saw her leave without him. Dylan was a wild dude. On the verge of seeking out the deep end. Him and Sharon were both heading to San Pedro Sula, the bigger more “dangerous” city near by, for separate reasons. Sharon was moving on. Dylan had to do something about his Visa, and had intentions of getting over his heartbreak with a little slumming-it-up on the streets of San Pedro. And for the first time since we met, I considered leaving the boys to follow this party. With those two, it just sounded like a good story was in the works. And I was beginning to have my fill of fraternal binging.  Andy was off to Dive in the Caribbean. The Irishmen were moving on south. But none of us were ready to say goodbye. So after a few more nights we finally moved on together, following Andy on the route to the Caribbean Coast.

Hitchin’ with Dylan

It was good to have such brother’s out on the road. We were usually pretty well received wherever we went.
I had the guitar, and a few Bob Marley tunes.

Fergal was the story teller. The Comedian. The Energy
Andy had a deep smooth voice, relaying a broken but reliable Spanish, with a thick American accent.

Patrick was the Captain.

Dylan, the aching romantic joined up with us once we got to the coast.

Since then, we’ve all gone our separate ways. I followed Dylan northbound into a night of partying on the border of Guatemala/Belize where the beer is $1US for a Litre, (budget!!) before he took off to Antigua, and I came back to Punta Gorda to rest my weary head.

I suppose anyone that’s ever gone travelling alone, and found these bonds based on trust and partnership despite having just met,  knows that what’s better than the stories I could tell you about my time with the boys, is the stories I can’t.

Party on Boys.

Punta Gorda White Boy Blues

I returned to my humble little South Belizean coast and had the catch up with all the old friends. Zayn, the baby-mama guy is still here. Drunk off his ass for the past 7 days straight they tell me. And let me tell you it almost came to fisticuffs this afternoon. He’s out of his mind. He’s got beef with me because I tell him to shut up every once in a while which he needs to hear. He almost picked the wrong hangover of a morning to start pushing my shoulder… But what happens if I punch out a local? Nothing says Allen, my Rastafarian brother. I went and checked out the tourist hostels in town. They were pretty nice but double the price. Decided to stick it out in the local scene. It’s alright. It seems this hostel will always inspire me in one way or another. I’ll keep coming back.

As I write this I’m listening to a tribute at Braddicks homeless shelter kind of abandoned building thing just down the street from the hostel. It’s a wake for Thelma, a woman who lived near by and was found floating in the ocean. No one knows what happened yet. I came back from my trip and asked the boys at the Central “What’s new?” and that was about it. It’s become quite common for me to return to Belize and hear of another untimely death.
I played a few songs, it was a pretty special moment. A night at the homeless shelter paying tribute to a woman I never actually got to know. The music is much quieter in PG this time around, so the gig’s that do occur seem to hold much more significance. Private shows for friends, and now a wake. The comic relief of the moment was me playing my hit tune “Punta Gorda White Boy Blues” to an audience of homeless Belizean’s. They loved it. I loved it.

As for the rest… I’m still off to find a truck… And I might search my way on down to Lake Atitlan, Guatemala… Sharon and Dylan are both headed that way and I still feel like there’s something worth seeing with such a trio. But I’m running out of time to drive a truck home, and I’d really rather not fly…

Stay tuned my friends. And if you know of any trucks for sale in Central America, get at me bro.